Oh God I married my Dad

Everyone has heard the Freudian jokes about how all women really want to marry their fathers. As American  women we all cringe and laugh at the idea of ever finding farmers tans, white socks with deck shoes, or T shirts tucked in ever attractive. Surely men go through the same thing at some point picturing mom jeans bent over an oven and giggling at the thought that someday, mom ass will be hot to them.

My father is a wonderful man and Dad. He was always supportive, made living as a physics teacher, and pastored home missions churches on the side. In most aspects the perfect father. My Dad is a shorter man of German decent. He was always the kinda do it right or don't bother kind of guy, with a hint of if you can pinch another penny outta that nickel, there may be another reward in heaven for you.

My mother used to laugh and tell us the story of my parents first house. My Dad purchased about 20 acres of land in the late 70s and began to build a house. When they moved in there wasn't much dry wall, you could see in and outta the rooms easily. But the windows in the winter without curtains were quite drafty. In order to save a few bucks on the utility bill, my Dad rolled and taped brown paper grocery bags to the sills. All the while assuring my mother that it was just temporary. Until 10 years later when they sold the house and the paper bags finally came down.

My husband and I live in a very beautiful loft in the city. It was once a synagogue in the early 1900s, and later renovated into apartments in the 1980s. I am sure that our thermostat was as old as the synagogue because it could never seem to keep an even temperature in the space. Fed up with freezing or burning up, and astronomical gas bills, I told my husband I wanted to buy a new one. One of those digital ones with programmable features. He is so sweet, and any excuse to make a purchase at home depot and he's off the races.

One day as I clean the apartment, I discover the new digital thermostat still in the bag. Tucked away in his little mans rats nest, in the corner of the living room. A place designated to keep the drills and bits and other tools, you know until we get settled in. Or in other words "just temporary". We have lived here now over three years. Now the next part of the story is told completely from my point of view. My husband swears that he told me he had bought it, and that he was waiting to install it because he was unhappy with the configuration of the switches on the wall. I remember part of that. So when he comes home I encourage him to start the project in an effort to get my thermostat put in.

It appears that on the wall there are a series of 4 necessary switches. One light switch for the living room, one for the upstairs, one for the fan, and of course the thermostat. His idea was to make all these separate switches go on one 3 way switch and move the thermostat so they are all in a nice row. Panic set in as I am cooking and hear a hand saw going back and forth into the drywall. The dust is going everywhere and there is little light. I'm laughing several hours later when I walk to the bathroom, and am warned not to go near the wall because the wires all hanging out are live. And he's packing his stuff up as though he's done for the night.

A small argument takes place surrounding the details of this project when I ask for a date of completion. He says most likely not this week. He won't have a day off from work, and there's too much going on. He tells me he will at least install the switches by Sunday, so when my girls come over for hair day, there will be heat and lights. I am happy with this compromise.

I am told that while I was at work the following week, his Dad and brother came over and helped install all three switches and the new thermostat. I am happy with this, but still looking at a big hole in my wall. Every time I walk past it it laughs at me and says, "temporary". Also I am only able to locate directions for the thermostat in the 3 languages that I don't understand. So this year my letter to Santa will read the following.

Dear Santa,

If you have time to fill my stocking I would like a piece of charcoal painted drywall, the cabinet doors to my credenza finished, a recycling bin, and the ability to read Spanish instructions. Also, if you have the time to bring me patience, I would really appreciate it. And most of all, a blindness to any other Dad related behavior.

Thanks Santa.

Top 33 Reasons Your Bartender Hates You

Many of you already know that I make my living as a bartender. I have mentioned it in the blog many times that although it is not my dream situation I have lived many years by the motto that their are better careers than bar-tending, but there are no better jobs. How many jobs can you work part time nights and pull in more than most entry level college grads do. All the while getting to meet tons of interesting people, dressing cute, making friends with co workers who are many times artists and musicians, and every week is a 3 day weekend. That being said, like everyone who works one on one with customers, we all know people are annoying. Here are the top 30 things to avoid ever doing in a night club when its really busy.

1 You hand me your Bobby Brady Allowance money all waded up to pay for your drink
2 You've ever said the words, "Scuse me"
3 Ice water
4 You've shown me your phone linked to the web with a recipe you want me to make you
5 Mojitos
6 You tip on 10 percent of your bill....you don't tip....you think 5 bucks is good for tabs between 20 and 100  bucks
7 Your an "Anna"...(I bring your drink and you keep adding to your order, "anna rum and coke, anna Bud Lite)
8 You stare at my breasts. ( At least try and be discreet)
9 No I don't remember you
10 If you tell me your a good tipper, it's just a tip that your a pain in the ass and probably tip for sh*t.
11You can't be bothered to do a lap and find the bathroom, you must stop me from what I'm doing and ask for directions
12 Waving
13 Please may I, and thank you, have been replaced with "eh ah... let me git a ah.."
14 You get my attention for someone else...bigshot
15 Ice water
16 You accuse me of short pouring you. (And while we're at it, telling me you can't taste the liquor, and your drinking vodka and juice..If you want to taste the liquor, drink something not designed to taste like nothing. See whiskey.)
17 You only drink top shelf vodka cause the rail gives you hangover, but you have no problem drinking red bull
18 You want me to guess what you'll like
19 "Make me anything as long as its not......."
20 Tapping an empty glass
21 Telling me your order even though I'm clearing ignoring you, and with another customer.
22 Drinking anything endorsed by a rapper and calling it "my drink".
23 Ice water
24 Asking for a drink on ice, in a snifter
25 Closing your tab after every drink
26 Eating out of my fruit tray
27 Ripping up coasters, receipts, and or napkins to confetti
28 Tipping in coin form of any kind
29 Asking my name so you can shout at me all night
30 Ordering drinks named after genitalia
31 You waited 10 minutes in line for a drink and don't know what you want.
32 Your wallet is still in your ass when I tell you the total..surprise you have to pay for it
33 Gum...Anywhere but your mouth or a trash can

Happy Holidays everyone! Please drink responsibly.

Freezer Cake

Those are regular size cocktail table candles.

When planning a wedding you are faced with more decisions than you can sometimes handle. I'm sure you know of at least one bride that has crumbled at some point over something that seems insignificant. I've heard of brides weeping over the dress not available in the right color, she couldn't get a certain flower for the center pieces, or someone was accidentally not invited and the whole family was in an uproar. This moment came to the bride of my wedding, my husband, over the cake.

I spent some time looking at cake designs and decided on a pretty simple but elegant cake design. It was a white 3 tier square cake with some simple black icing design. Top with some flowers, and badda bing, badda bang, a cake! My very dear friend Janine had offered to make my cake as my wedding gift. I was over the moon! She is the best baker I know, her food always tastes fantastic, and a simple wedding cake costs around $1500 these days. She asked me what kind of cake I wanted, and I said I don't really like cake all that much, but I do love her carrot cake. And being that it was a fall wedding I thought carrot cake would be acceptable.

My husband thought that was a silly idea. Carrot cake? I stood my ground and convinced him that once he tasted this carrot cake he would understand. So I set a time up with Janine for us to come do a tasting and talk about the design of the cake. She asked me to pick a few flavors to chose from. So I ask my husband and he says peanut butter.

To fully understand the peanut butter thing, I have to first explain his fascination with Reeses peanut butter cups. It is somewhat a day off tradition to run our errand together and at some point stop for gas and a coke. And every time he comes out to the car with the latest Reeses product. There are cups, dark chocolate, white chocolate, king size, dipped in peanuts, rolled in dye no. 9 and xanax. There are pieces with more peanut butter, dark chocolate, milk chocolate centers, all orange, it doesn't matter that none of them taste as good as the original, if it says Reeses on the label, he buys it.

So I laugh and tell Janine that he want to try a peanut butter and chocolate cake along with the others we talked about. She sounds as confused as I expected but reluctantly agrees.

We arrive at her house and she does the best little presentation you've ever seen. She's a little like Martha Stewart, if Martha Stewart liked jagermeister, loud rock and roll, and had the cops called on her annual July 4th party for blowing up giant fireworks off the roof of her garage. We taste several cakes, yes including a peanut butter cake that was really good, but we all know I wanted carrot. After a long tug of war, trying to convince him that peanut butter is not a flavor you serve at the rooftop of a major hotel, he agreed that the carrot cake was incredible. Then the discussion about the cake design began.

She asked all the right questions about how many people the cake needed to feed and so on. She obviously knew what she was doing. But somehow the wedding pressures had weighed to far on my husband, and he decides that the cake needs to be more of a statement. He gets out a ruler and begins showing Janine how big he wants it. The look on my friends face was priceless. She explains that this cake is going to be really big, and will likely feed an army. But she agrees to do it the way he wants it, sparing a vital bridezilla breakdown.

When we arrive at the reception site and they show me the room all set up I was so blown away! It looked so wonderful! The flowers, the table clothes, and the GIANT wedding cake! She did such a great job, but this cake was easily 2 feet wide and almost 3 feet tall. I have about 85 guests. When they asked if I like to keep the top of my cake for my freezer I said Id love to. When they brought it to our room later I thought I'll need to rent a deep freeze.

As we are cutting the cake Janine leans to me and says, "Don't eat the black icing. It will stain your mouth." A piece of advice given to all the guests, all except my mother who's tongue looked like she licked Texas gold. The carrot cake lived up to it's rumors and everyone thought it was delicious. Several people mentioned how yummy it was over the next several months. And so did the bar full of drunk people that got the leftovers the next day when my family that went to have pizza.

So on the one year anniversary we pulled the cake from the freezer and as it thawed had a celebration of one year of married bliss, and the return of serious freezer space. My husband says that cake was way too big, with a smile on his face. Thank you so much Janine for getting a Cosco card to make the cake, and for making such a wonderful, decadent, beautiful, Mark McQuired wedding cake. It was fabulous then, and surprisingly stupendous a year later!

The Stolen Pumpkin

Every fall, my husband and I do our grocery shopping and look at the big beautiful pumpkins and he tells me of this infamous pumpkin stew he makes. I have never had said stew, but I am told it is amazing. It is a beef stew you make in a pumpkin, and bake it in the oven. Then when you serve it, you scrape the inside of the pumpkin with the serving spoon..I salivate every time he tells me about it. He says, "Honey, I will make it for you this year."

Imagine my surprise when he picks me up with a list of things to buy for the stew. On our way to Schnucks, I get so excited. We begin combing the store for all the necessary ingredients. As our cart fills, my stomach growls. Just one item left. The pumpkin. A look of panic comes over our faces as we think back to the produce section and neither of us can remember seeing a pumpkin. They must have pumpkins, Thanksgiving is next week!

We scurry around the store and no pumpkins! My husband finds a store manager and asks where the pumpkins are. He says they shipped all of their pumpkins out after Halloween. We ask if he knows of any where to get a pumpkin, and he chuckles and says, "This time of year? Maybe a farmers market."

We get on the phone and look up the numbers to some farmers markets and all we found in the neighborhood closed at five. As we are checking out all the items for the stew minus the pumpkin we have a short judgmental conversation about how no Americans make real pumpkin pie any more. I mean I don't, but all those other people out there should be ashamed of themselves! True pumpkin outta of can is easier, lighter weight, and makes a really tasty pumpkin pie, but come on! We mourn the loss of our fictional grandmothers whose hair was all white at the age of 50, up in a perfect bun everyday, whom wore ruffled aprons and served food on good china while constantly asking us if we've had enough to eat, with a European accent. Now she would have scraped her own pumpkin for pumpkin pie!

And speaking of European grandmothers.....I had a thought. It was wrong and I shouldn't have even spoken the words, but out they came.

"I bet if we drove through the neighborhood we'd find a pumpkin. I mean we are on the Hill. (The Hill is a very old Italian neighborhood, filled with restaurants, markets, sandwich shops and bungalow houses.) My husband laughs and says that he was thinking it but he didn't think I'd go along with it.

I have very few theft stories in my life. I once stole a paint brush in college because I needed it for a painting, and the store wanted $20 for the stupid thing.( Rational stealing is still stealing, but less guilt.) Also my sister stole some sunglasses once and got caught, and subsequently lost a job over it. The last instance was my favorite. It involves my brother in law stealing a phone book from a hotel running up the street screaming GO! GO! GO! as he hopped into a moving mini van. Some stories dont need explaining.

So we began our sneaky Operation Pumpkin. We drive slowly up and down the streets eyeballing up all the pumpkins. "There's one!...There's another!"

"Honey I would like to not actually go onto someones porch to steal their pumpkin."

We finally see one. Reachable from the street, no lights on. We park the car, and my husband who can't walk through living room without stomping and usually knocking things over or bumping into furniture turns into a feline and steals the pumpkin with no sound. He hands it to me through the window and I almost break my arm.

He gets back in the car and as we pull away he says. "Yeah that ones way too big!" I die laughing! It must have weighed 28 pounds! Hes laughing, I'm laughing! This wont even fit in the oven! Well maybe now we can trade the big one for someone else's smaller one.

We spot a house with a haystack and a pumpkin display. They have 2 that are the perfect size. We park and my husband approaches the door. I watch in the rear view mirror and imagine the conversation as he knocks on the door.

"Excuse me mam. Can I please trade you this lovely 28 pound pumpkin for one of a more manageable size. You see I'm making this stew." She would say sure my dear, then tomorrow when the neighborhood news letter comes out realizes that we traded her a stolen pumpkin. Antonio wages a war with her.. "Hey! Dat iz a my pompkin!" All will tell the story for years of the people in the Honda that steal pumpkins. All Honda driving white couples will be banned from sandwich shops. And eventually riot ends up on channel 2 news.

Luckily no one comes to the door. We trade for the medium size pumpkin. The stew was awesome! And the moral to the story is its bad to steal! You should never do it, but if u must, steal something that will likely never make a pie.

6 to 8 Black Men

Autumn is my favorite time of year! The leaves, the smell in the air of dried leaves and the brewery! But best of all, I am reminded that as soon as that dreadful holiday Halloween is over it will be time to start thinking about my favorite holiday! CHRISTMAS!

If my husband would let me, I would begin putting the tree up on November 1st. I abstain knowing that not only does my husband think I am nuts for wanting to do this, but so does everyone else other than my own part elf mother. So I have my secret early rituals.. You know just a little fix until the big time of cookies and eggnog.

While I am home alone, I burn my Christmas candles. Listen to not so obvious jazz versions of Christmas carols, and instead of taking a magazine to the bathroom, I bring with me a copy of David Sedaris Holidays on Ice. My favorite story is one entitled 6 to 8 black men where Sedaris fills us in on how the great people of Holland celebrate and view Santa Claus.

Apparently, in the Netherlands the children exchange gifts on December 5th. St. Nicks day. There, he dresses like a red velvet pope, said to be left over from his former career as bishop of Turkey. And also, Santa resides in Spain...not the north pole. Every year he docks in late November and is escorted by not elves, (said to be thought of as grotesque and unrealistic. Ironic from the dutch people whom embrace legalized drugs and prostitution.) but by what is described as 6 to 8 black men. I laugh as Sedaris mocks the Dutch people in the idea that with everyone he asks the number is always the same. 6 to 8. Odd for having over a century to nail down an exact number. I suppose at one point the black men were slaves, but since Saint Nicks pope attire and the fact that the Catholic church is trying to shake its former image of oppressive behavior and racism, the 6 to 8 black men are now known as St. Nicks "good friends".

So Halloween came. I am told by my bosses at my job that everyone has to dress up, and that my response to "What are u going as for Halloween?"....."um...an adult." was no longer funny.
I borrowed a costume from a friend, a very cute lederhosen Saint Pauli girl kinda thing. As I am getting ready for work my husband calls and says that the car has been stolen. My first response is laughter followed by absolute rage.

I own a 1998 Dodge Caravan! I just had about $700.00 work done on it in the last 15 days! Who wants to steal a mini van! In broad daylight! On a major street! The police are called. Evening approaches and I find my Heidi costume to be even more annoying now that I am sitting on the curb waiting for a taxi cab. Some trick or treaters walk by and tell me I look like Lady Gaga. This is a comparison I am getting really used to. Anyone over the age of 40 says I look like Marilyn Monroe, and anyone younger or homosexual says Lady Freakin Gaga! I smile at them.

I arrive at work to find that I am the only person dressed up! No joke! And everyone I tell that my car is stolen and missing says.."Yeah I hear those are easy to steal." After the 3rd time I wanted to ask my community that if this is such common knowledge, why did no one buy me a Club for Christmas the last 3 years I owned the car? I look like the most uncomfortable sad little beir girl you've ever seen. Finally the phone rings at 5:30 pm.

It is my husband calling to say that they found the car. It was totaled. Witnesses on the scene describe it as going 55 mph in a 30mph zone outta control, and hit a traffic sign. At which point "6 to 8 black kids" were seen running and scattering from the vehicle. They had stolen it, and drove somewhere to throw away anything that wasn't bolted down, including the head rests. They then picked up their friends and threw a 3 gallon gas can in the back just in case they needed gas I suppose.

When the tow truck brought the van back to my house my thoughts were on one thing! Did they know about the secret CD box under the passenger seat? I furiously run down and climb in the mangled broken carcass of the van and open the drawer! Eureka! There they all were! My Harry Connick Jr When Your Heart Finds Christmas, Christmas Cocktails, Have Yourself a Jazzy Little Christmas, and Mary Mary CDs! All there.

I breathe a sigh of relief, but cant help but wonder..did St Nicks "friends" steal my car? The evidence...
Inability to get an accurate number of people fleeing from the scene...6 to 8
Everything thrown away.....except Christmas and gospel music?

Perhaps this year, the Netherlands hot Christmas items are insurance papers, recyclable grocery bags and head rests from American cars! Ahh yes! Santa stole my mini van!

12 Hours and a Beatle!

My husband and I both were in a state of absolute frustration when we looked at our $200 Verizon wireless bill, and then looked down at the crappy out dated phones in our hands. He has been carrying a red crazor with no working screen, and I could only talk on speaker phone with my LG smartphone. ( Courtesy of a late night with co workers where someone spilled jagermeister on the ear piece....okay that may have been me.)

I laughed as my husband would use his phone to call people using the memory game.

" If I press this button it goes to my contacts...Arrow down once and I am in the search bar, then I can type the persons name and then hit send, and 90 % of the time I have dialed the right number."

The look on his face was one of pride, then quickly turned to a smirk of realization that this is ridiculous.

This is ridiculous! How do we pay $200 a month and have these things as our contact to the world!

Hubby says that he saw an add on TV for the motorola droid as a buy one get one free. I was very excited because when I had my palm phone, he called it stupid on a regular basis because he didn't know how to work it. Finally! He was ready to move on with technology.

"You like the droid phones?!"

"Yeah! They're really cool. My brother had one."

"Well okay! Lets see what we can do."

After several attempts on the phone and placing an order on the internet I finagled the buy one get one for $50. They would be there the next day.

Phones arrive and I immediately get to work on setting mine up. By the time hubby comes home I have my email, facebook, and entire contact list programmed. Watching him unbox his phone with excitement quickly turned to disgust and hatred..I kept laughing as he would yell that he hated the phone and that it is absolutely assanign that they would make buttons that small! And that the phone technology world is prejudice to left handed people. The more and more he went on the funnier it became to me and more mad he got.

We had a day trip planned to see Paul McCartney play in Nashville. He had arranged for us to borrow a car from his Dad and get me off work. It was all suppose to be a big surprise. We were all set to go, got sandwichs in the car, sodas, flasks for the show, and money in our pockets. I'm standing in the doorway with a hand full of stuff and ready to go when he says to wait a minute he needs to print out the map.

Determined to sell him on our new phones I tell him that he doesn't need to print out a map that the phones have internet, google maps and GPS. He agrees and we are off to Nashville!

Tunes are going, traffic is flowing. We figured if we made good enough time we would be able to go to the Country Music Hall of Fame before the show. We get about and hour and fifteen minutes outside of St. Louis and he turns to me and says...

"Did you get the tickets?"

Silence, followed by panic, and soon loud laughter! Neither of us had grabbed the tickets from the refrigerator. So several miles later when allowed to exit the highway, we turned around and headed back to St. Louis.

We arrive home and get the tickets, grab some CD's, over feed the cats, and return to the road. The drive was great! We had good talks and were buzzing with excitement when we arrive outside the city. Hubby asks me,

"Okay, can you please get directions on the phone?"

I begin to try and use the maps function on the browser which just kept showing me where we were. I then just used the internet to get directions from the arenas web site, which proved to be useless when we missed the turn onto the correct highway. He was very irritated at me at this point. He just kept saying got to mapquest! But the phone wasn't allowing me to go to the task bar. Finally, we pull over and he manages to out navigate me and gets mapquest directions on his phone. Ive never been prouder.

We arrive at the arena, find a place to park. Changed our clothes and walked around the shops on broadway to avoid the giant line that had formed outside the venue. By the time the doors were scheduled to open, there were tornado sirens going off and the sky was green and wet. Long security checks were deduced to nothing more than making sure you had your ticket. Ive never seen so many people pushed through doors in such a small amount of time.

The concert was absolutely amazing! Words cannot express the feeling! And thanks to the new phones, we can relive some of the moments through video. Long live technology!

Derby Debunck Final Disasters

We arrive at the hotel lounge where the party was being held, and looked and felt great! I had some mac and cheese in my belly, champagne in my hand and a smile on my face! Kip had a painkiller in his belly, his fourth cocktail in his hand, and a smirk on his face that says, We both know I'm better than this.

He was reeling at our vodka friend for suggesting that he and I had acted like, "Scared little kittens" at the Michael Jordon party because we didn't want to socialize with entouraging hanger on pieces of hookerdom. This made Kip very angry as one could imagine. And me too for that matter. The truth is that I could spend all day BS ing with almost anyone and get them to find me charming, but I didn't want to waste my time!

I am introduced to a gentleman who was married to my friends boss, and had also married his eyes at my chest. He was rich and boring, and his wife couldn't stand me...shocker! I look around for Kip and can't seem to locate him. He was chatting up a nice guy and I went out to smoke.

While outside vodka friend comes out all a flutter about some stupid someone, and I decided that I was going to introduce myself to everyone there till there was no one left. I met all kinds of people! Politicians, PR guys, publicists, and another male model. This ones name was Sterling, or Stephan, or Stupid....I don't remember.

We begin to talk, and I am almost immediately regretful. He was very stupid, and very uninteresting, but very nice to look at. So I did that thing where you act like your listening to the person in front of you, and really your listening to a conversation across the room. I noticed that he was looking me in the eye. He appeared to be looking at my chin, or probably my mouth, when I turned to bob my head around to locate Kip. I could tell he was going to say something sexual. Then he sniffed me! Yes that's right! The man sniffed me! I had to ask!

"Did you just sniff me?"

"Are you staying at the hotel?"

"No."

"I am."

As I lock eyes with Kip and give him the HEEEEELP look, the model man bites my neck! Thank God for my Kippy whoms voice could be heard from all across the room as he leaps in my direction shouting,

"Okay! Time to go!"

I agree, and tell Kip and vodka that I will be using the ladies room and then hailing a "cab".

I come out of the bathroom to find vodka propping up Kip as he laughs histerically! And Kip says,

"Oh my God gurrrl...I'm that guy....I just fell down!" (laughing)

"What?!"

"Yeah he fell, and into my boss!" says vodka.

I laughed the rest of the night. We arrive back at the motor home and both fall fast asleep. We wake up at around 1 the next afternoon and laugh once again! Once for Kip saying over and over again, "Was I really that guy!" and secondly because when we looked outside, and all 400 RVs and tents were packed up and gone! It was like we were the one VW bus you see still in the parking lot 2 days after a grateful dead show. There we were. Me, Kip, and our neighbor boys. We packed up and left for home two hours later. It was a really good time, and priceless in stories!

Here's to you Kippy, the boys, and especially International Male Model Brad! Love you all!

Derby Debunck Part 2

Eleven thirty a.m. Derby Day I awake feeling fantastic! (Probably because I am still a little drunk.) Kip yells to the back bedroom, "Oh my God! What time did we go to sleep?"

"Uh....7 ish?"

"No way!"

We both start laughing. Kip raises the blinds and reveals the crappiest Derby day ever! It is raining, it's cold, and it's dark! I wanted to cry.

We decided that a good breakfast and some primping and we would feel different about it. Boy was that a mistake! Kip made breakfast for me and the man Kip will only refer to as "International Male Model Brad". One of the neighbor boys. We had some omlettes with Gruyere cheese, and a lot of rich ingredients, and that did me in. I immediately felt like absolute ass! Hangover in full swing!

I look outside again, and my stomach sinks. First of all, there is no way I am wearing my gorgeous hat and dress in the weather similar to the movie "Cast Away"! Secondly, there is also no way I'm not going! I spent $80.00 on the tickets and we are going to the Derby!

Kip and I both slowly begin getting ready. Then the parks lead toothless meth head on a golf cart, comes by to inform us that the race has been postponed an hour. I lay down till the last possible minute, and see the boys all lining up outside in their seer sucker blue and white suits. They looked adorable. They had cigars hanging out of their mouths, and manners to match. I came out of the motor home in one of my proudest impromptu outfits ever. I won't bore you with the details, but I looked fab...and felt sick.

We all were miserable! We arrive at the Churchill Downs grounds, and begin walking in the rain. And walking. And walking. The downs is full of very loud drunk people. I mean DRUNK! We get cattle prodded into the infield, where as far as I could tell was similar to Mardi Gras on hillbilly heroin at a Garth Brooks benefit for High School kids. It was loud! It was wet! It was muddy! It was the country version of the 1999 Woodstock. It was so not my scene!

Kip helped me search for a bottle of water, that we never found. He wanted something to eat. Couldn't find that either, what we could find is bourbon and beer, and drunk minors. Apparently they don't card anyone Derby weekend. If they were out of the house and could grow arm pit hair, they were drunk. Kip and I look at each other and keep asking one another, "What do you wanna do? I don't know, what do you want to do?"

Finally, I threw in the towel and was the first to say Uncle. I kept looking around and couldn't see the track. Apparently, everyone but me knew that you can't see the track from the infield. Why go see a race you can't see?

So Kip and I walked out. There was also a line to leave! That's how crappy the weather was! We get out of the grounds at the Downs and catch a ride to in our words, "any bar with a TV."
The bar was also loud...loud with good ole country music, loud! It was at the bar that I learned the words and audience participation words to a song called "Why do you Drink"...(audience) "Get Drunk!", "Why do you blow smoke?" (audience) "Get hah!" (That's 'get high' to those of you still speaking English.)

I watched a middle age woman dance a jig bare foot on the bar floor to "Good Old Rocky Top". I couldn't help but think how much she would come to regret that decision the next day. Everyone clapped and hooped and hollered. Finally at 6:30 the race began! 90 seconds and an upset.

I begged Kip to let us go back to the motor home and take a nap. He obliged. After a nap I felt a whole lot better! I told Kip that we came here to look fabulous and sit on white couches and sip cocktails, and that is what we are going to do! Our vodka friend promised us free drinks and fanciness, and we are going to get it! And we did...sort of.

Derby Debunck Part 1

A friend of mine is a regional party planner for a major vodka company in the mid west. he told me one Friday evening in April that he was planning an event for the Kentucky Derby. My gayer half Kip was all aghast, as was I, at the idea of sipping mint juleps and betting in the most fabulous attire in Louisville, on the studs. Hoping to become one of those people on the news that win big and forget the little people.

We (and by "we" I mean Kip and his fancy phone.) begin to research what is was going to cost us to go to the Derby, and it turns out...Hotels are stupid pricey! Like $1500 a night stupid. I gave up on the idea, and my gay came through! He suggested that we take his fathers motor home. Perfect!

So many many phone calls later between a gal and her gay over which seer sucker, which hat, what shoes, and then we had to talk about my outfit, and we are off to the Derby.

It was a time of many firsts. My first trip without my husband that didn't include my parents. My first trip with my friend Kip. And my first time in a swanky motor home. (Just to fill you in, this thing was the Cadillac of motor homes! It was 47 feet long. Full kitchen, full bath! Even has ceramic floors! ((Funny how technology has gotten ceramic tile to work in a motor home, and the tile in my bathroom is cracked everywhere!)) This thing is so nice you can take a number 2 while driving!

I slept most the way there on the white leather sofa. We arrive in Louisville KY just in time for the sun to come out. As we enter the motor home park, my friend Kip and I exchange a look that I will never forget. His look was "sweet", and mine was "I hope I'm not raped."

I've never been to a Nascar event, but if I had been, I think it would look like this! It was a proverbial sausage fest! As we pulled in tens upon tens of men without shirts held there beer cozys in admiration to the motor home! They were fascinated at the the size, at the celebrity of the whole thing. Tent after tent and RV after RV, I think I saw 3 woman and probably close to 400 men.

We get into our parking space, and Kip true to his Susie Homemaker form, starts getting out citronella candles, rugs, awnings, and patio lights for the outside of the motor home. I was told to stand there and look pretty. After all was setup, Kip made me a fabulous steak dinner. We got acquainted with the neighbors and got in the shower to begin the parade of derby fashion.

One of the coolest things about Louisville on derby weekend is that as far as I can tell the entire city shuts down for 72 hours, except for the bars. They stay open from Friday to Sunday, and absolutely everyone is a taxi cab. Apparently it is not against the law to give anyone a ride to anywhere, as long as you don't charge a fare. You can however ask for a donation or a "tip". Everywhere you go people ask you if you need a ride.

So we get in our shuttle and are driven downtown to a hotel where we were going to a party. Us and our very drunk neighbor and cab mate from Knoxville jammed out to some hair metal from the 80's, hopes were high, and so was our driver.

Arriving at the hotel we find our friend, and begin on a journey I like to call red carpet denial. We walked from club to club with our friend trying to get into these celebrity clubs and getting very cranky! It seems our vodka friend wasn't as well connected as one may have been lead to believe. I, being under the impression that I would be laying about on white leather couches and fanned by jockeys somewhere, wore four inch Betsy Johnson heels. Block after block we walk and finally get into the Michael Jordan party.

The venue was gorgeous! Must have had 120ft ceilings, and it did have a complimentary bar...of vodka. (I don't drink vodka.. It makes me nuts.) The crowd was very well dressed and the DJ was awful. The food was crappy, and I saw no celebs, unless you count the hookers that entourage for T.O. celebs. Honestly, I had never heard of a T.O. until this night. And still couldn't tell you what he looks like or who the hell he is.

Kip and I spent this part of the night letting our eyes roll in unison, and looking for the door so we could smoke and make fun of everyone. We then went to the playboy party, where there were actually girls dressed like bunnies and tanned like Cheetos. We stood outside with the creme de le creme of worse than B celebs...... rich people. Freaking really rich people. They ooze money and look down at us all the while pretending to like us and buy us drinks. It's an odd feeling and one I'm sure they do on purpose. It's sort of like they are letting you know not to get to comfortable in their world cause you'll be cast away soon. I think I saw a woman reach for Purell in her purse after shaking my hand. I wanted to tell her that friendliness isn't contagious so she need not worry. Needless to say, the party sucked. I once again found a door where I could smell cigarette smoke and told the boys they could find me there.

I found a wirey and very uneven bar stool on the cobblestone in what was pretty much the alley behind the bar with umbrellas and speakers, and sat down for the remainder of the night. Not because I wanted to, but because my feet at this point have swollen to twice their size and no longer have feeling in them. I met a couple of nice people, and asked Kip if he was ready to go several times. I finally discover that he was waiting for last call which never came. I was after five am when we left and I was pooped!

We arrive back at the trailer park...(cough)...motor home village, to find our neighbor dudes still awake, very drunk, and sitting in lawn chairs on the roof of their motor home. Kip, never one to miss and opportunity, invites them into our motor home, where they seemed to camp out in until we left the state. One of these boys was named Brad, and he was from Knoxville TN. He said it best when he said, "Honey we're Southern, if you want us to leave, your gonna have to make it real clear." He was very charming and informed us that he once made his living modeling in Milan. Yes folks....a male model. And funniest part, not the only one I met that weekend!

We drank and laughed till six thirty. Kip made them all food, and they loved it! It was like he was taking care of the dirty boys. Telling them what to wear to the derby, and making sure they ate something etc. I am not a country girl, I hate camping, but I had more fun drinking beer with the boys then cocktails with the important. And I had the Derby day hangover to prove it!

Piles Upon Piles

My husband and I recently found ourselves alone! The friend has found a new place and is getting back on her feet. All good news. Including....naked time! Naked time is back just in time for spring!

Having our house back to ourselves has given me the much needed head space to start really living and getting stuff done! I cleaned out the studio, am paying off some credit cards, and most importantly have found time and motivation to get my husband to help me tackle the basement!

Let me first explain that I really like to throw stuff away, and my husband keeps everything! I for one think that this is true of all relationships. At least the ones that are built to last, there is always a dominate in the pair. My husband is the dominate, and thank God because left to my own devises I have a tendency to live very chaotically. There is always one spender, and one saver. There is also one pack rat, and the one that is aggravated at the idea of clutter.

My husband has made huge strides since we moved in together and has gotten rid of literally thousands of things. And as a testament to him, is really ready to get rid of much much more. I am so proud, and so ready to throw shit away!

A little background for my readers, when we moved into our now apartment it took an entire day of moving just to move the crap in the basement. Not including anything that was in our actual apartment. His basement at the old apartment had 1250 square feet of stuff that he condensed down to 800 sq feet. A good 300 square feet of stuff was left behind, and the rest thrown away. This was a huge accomplishment!

However, tonight really got the best of me for awhile. We went down together in high hopes of really putting a dent in the clutter. Two hours in I felt completely overwhelmed. I was really hoping to find a bunch of my boxes from when I was single and throw stuff away. I found 4 boxes of the 100 down there. I threw it all away. Then a lot of the time I spent down there was handing my husband boxes and saying, "You should look through this,... and throw it away!"

He did very good and condensed five boxes down to one. A big deal! But there is a huge section of stuff dedicated to the "studio". My husband used to own a recording studio. Still does, but it is really more like "Oz". A mythical place that exists only in theory. We have all the stuff, and no where or means to rent a place to put it in working condition. It is on the list of things to do in the future.

Onward bound we went. Dug through the boxes and hundreds of dollars worth of scooter parts and guitars in pieces. I....just kept throwing shit away. He had a slow walk down memory lane. This is the biggest problem with us cleaning together. I think I may have watched far too many television shows on hoarding, because I can go through a box in about three minutes. For him it takes closer to twenty, give or take how many times he says.."Honey! Look at this! Do you know what this is?"

I always answer, "Yes, its trash."

He furrows his brow at me, and keeps it. My hope is that a time in the future will come, when home projects are completed, and you can see the floor in my basement. High, high hopes.

Polygamy and Puzzles

After a usual Sunday evening with my husband spent watching the HBO original series "Big Love", we had a small conversation about whether or not we thought that it should be legal for old school Joesph Smith follower who practice the principal, to take multiple wives. We laughed and made many jokes about the crazy people who think this is a good idea. And he made a joke that he wanted to take a second wife. I responded that maybe he could work on making the wife he has happy and then we'll talk about it. It was a very funny and silly conversation that made it's way into my sub conscious and lead to the most hilarious dream I have ever had!

Fast asleep the scene in my head opens in my living room. My husband comes home from work and announces to me that he has taken a sister wife for me. I freak out and say that I am in no way going to practice this Neanderthal principal, and I find a little vomit in the back of my throat when I think about moving to Utah. He goes on to say that he really did this for me. Our family is spread to thin and I would have someone to help me around the house. He says that he knows I will love her, and we should just try it out for a week. In the door walks Chelsea Handler. We share a look as though in my my dream we are long time friends. And in that look we exchange ideas to torch er my husband for suggesting that we do this.

Still dreaming...A montage begins of Chelsea and I playing "Threes Company" like practical jokes on him. You know, bucket of water over the door, marbles on the floor, saran wrap on the toilet seat. Each time one of our clever tricks worked we would snicker and high five like sixth graders. My husband still determined to get us into the idea of all being married, Chelsea and I decided that our practical jokes would need to get worse and more creative. I said to Chels, (I call her Chels in my dream.)

" You know with the sales from your new book Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang, we could throw a little money at a joke! His birthday is next week."

Chels looks at me and says

"I have idea!"

A short time later there is a knock at the door. Chels tells me to answer the door and when I open it, standing a very expensive hand beaded evening gown and a Louis Vutton handbag is Vanna White. Vanna walks in and asks where is the benefit? I look at Chels and she says,

"Oh there is no benefit. I talked to your agent, and I bought you for the night."

"Chels, why did you buy Vanna for the night?"

"I don't know, I just thought maybe it would freak him out."

"Okay, but why? What is she suppose to do?"

"I don't know! What does he really hate?"

"Hip hop."

"Then that's what she'll do! Hey Vanna, I want you to stand at the top of the steps, and when he gets home, you play hip hop!"

Vanna chimes in and explains she doesn't know how to play hip hop. Asks if I have a stereo or something.

"Chels, the stereo is broken. What is she suppose to do?"

"Alright Vanna! Listen up! Your going to play hip hop! You have a handbag don't you?! Okay good! Then you move the zipper back and forth and make a beat! Then you just make some noise over it!"

My husband walks in and Vanna crouched down in her gown at the top of my stairs starts moving the zipper on her $500 handbag rigorously and trying to beat box. My husband looks very angry and Chles and I die laughing!

I woke up after that and told my husband about the dream. He laughed hysterically, and said,

"Well that settles that! No multiple wives!" I laughed as well. I can't decide what was the best part of the dream, the fact that Vanna White played hip hop on a purse, or that Chelsea Handler and I were friends.

The Reunion Show!

Last night I had the opportunity to attend a reunion show of my favorite swing band from ten years ago. I was super excited about hearing the music, dancing, and most of all seeing all my old swing buddies. I had no idea what I was in for!

I read the facebook invite and it read that the reunion show was in Ofallon, Il. Bad because it's a thirty minute drive. Worse, because it's a thirty minute drive to a town next to my hometown! I finally arrive at the conference center and am amazed at the idea that I almost made it through an entire album on the ipod! As I walk in, I see a sea of high school kids in black wandering around. I ask the man at the desk where the Swing band show is, and he looks very puzzled.

"This is the O'fallon High School Jazz Band fundraiser concert."

I must have had a look on my face that represented someone facing a sentencing, because we both just stared at each other. I wandered around the hotel looking for a sign of another concert going on, alas there was none. I grabbed the mobile phone and called a friend and asked her to look at facebook and confirm the address. I explained that I was at some kind of high school concert. She crackberrys the website and laughs out the words,

"Your at the right place."

I then see warming up in a room my best friend, and trumpet player of the band. She ran out to greet me.

"Hey! Am I at the right place?"

She laughed and explained that this was a fundraiser and the high school jazz band was opening for them. It also was an auction with a collection of many autographed items. Including a guitar signed by Taylor Swift, that eventually made a home with a 13 year old boy, who's future is most certainly to be a server in Chelsea. I walked in and immediately found my old buddies. They stood out as bad as I did. Among the sea of Dockers, sequined blazers, and white zinfandel's was our table. Two toned shoes, low cut dresses, and whiskey.

The jazz band wasn't all that bad, and they better not be. Seeing as how their parents had all spent tremendous amounts of money on their instruments. It had it everything you'd expect. Timing issues, nervous solos, bad bassist, and flashbacks. I was sitting next to my old friend Tiffany who's jokes kept my shoulders rocking up and down all night. She is like a red headed George Carlin.

The barry sax player was the best. A fat kid of course. Tiffany leans over to me and says something along the lines of sax practice and masturbation, and i spit my drink out a little. His parents of course were sitting at the table in front of us. They didn't hear what we were saying but we were very unwelcome.

Trying to fit in and not be gawked at like the townie whores we looked like, we got involved in the auction. Of course dropping out every time an item went over $25.00. Finally, the band started!

We hooped and hollered, sang along with every song. Remembered all the audience cues, and were even asked by the band to do some dancing. The rest of the audience glared, glared and, oh yeah, glared at us. The bartender was atrocious! Which I can understand, when all you do is open bud select and pour white zin, but she told me she had no scotch. When I told her she had Dewars, she said "Oh that's whiskey."

When the show ended my friends told me that in a weird coinsidence that the other swing band we used to go to was playing 5 miles away in my hometown. They asked me if I knew where it was, and unlike my sister who has the navigational skills of a GPS, I do not, and did not. Still they asked me to lead the caravan. I of course, drove them to my high school, because that is the only way I could remember to get to Belleville from Ofallon. It was a disaster.

We finally arrived at the right place, and i was attacked by a gentleman (and I use that term loosely) named Roger. Roger was easily 74 years young, and had the breath of a hunter 3 days in the tree stand. He was quite the little dancer, and advancer. We danced many...many songs. My friends and I had a great time, but were getting too sauced to continue our east side adventure and still drive home. It was time to call it a night. I awoke this morning with a fever blister, and can't help thinking that Roger had something to do with it.

The show was a blast, and I hope in another ten years they do another reunion show! Maybe this time they can have a polka group warm up for them, that's the only way they can top all the comedy material we indulged in.

ROCKER TED!

Jesus Healed My TV

One of the hurdles in my marriage and relationship with my husband has been the differences in faith. My husband claims to be an atheist and I am a christian. We for the most part have been able to keep this difference from forcing any wedges between us, but it is sometimes I can't help but giggle when God shows up.

Let me clarify that my husband is very supportive of my faith. He will even give me a little grief if I don't go to church. He encourages my prayer and bible time, and has even made jokes that if God does exsist that my family has a direct line. We are prayers. Prayer warriors. We like to get stuff done. If someone needs a job, a baby, a raise, a healing, we pray and God usually answers. It's not magic, it's just faith.

A couple weeks ago the unthinkable happened. The TV broke! I know that our culture as a whole has a serious addiction to technology, heck I saw a nun on Oprah with a blackberry. I was so upset. I had just paid the cable bill for one, and my favorite show was saved on the DVR. My husband and I did all we could but the thing just wouldn't turn on. Unplugged it and plugged it back in. We took a screwdriver to the switch, and nothing. We tried to fix it for 20 minutes. Deflated and defeated we gave up.

My husband went to the kitchen and started cooking dinner, I sat down at the laptop in the dining room and began to price televisions online. Then we had a discussion that if we are going to buy a new TV it should be the nice flat screen we were planning to buy with the tax return money. Those are very expensive, and we are still recovering from the wedding and have little of the proverbial pot to Tivo in. So I said a little prayer, well whined a little prayer out loud.
"Jesus, please fix the TV."

About three minutes later the TV came on! Yes all by it's self. My husband looked at me and I looked at him. I said "Thank you Jesus!" My husband laughed at me and said, "Jesus doesn't care about the TV." And I think he's right. Jesus doesn't care about my TV, but he'll take any opportunity to prove my husband wrong. Or at least mess with him a little.

What's In a Name?

When I married my husband I had every intention of taking his name. Now, I will be the first to admit that I played around with the idea of hyphenating my name to his for a couple of reasons. First, I am the last of the girls in my family with this last name. And second, well, my last name rocks!

But after thinking about the idea of marriage really being a union between two people, two into one person, I wanted to acknowledge that. Besides if I was to hyphenate my last name would be seventeen letters, and well that's just stupid.

I'm not a person with whom a name is attached to my career. I'm not a partner at a major law firm, or an award winning actress. There is really no need to keep my name except for the idea that the girl who was on her own all through her twenties is now gone. This is okay. That girl wanted to get married.

So after the honeymoon ended and the holidays were over, I began the process to change my last name. First I was to go to City hall to acquire a "certified" marriage license. Apparently the one the state mailed me from the capitol city wasn't good enough. Or at least not going to help them make any money off me. You will see this trend continue through my story. I wait in line and stand at the counter and the same woman who issued the first license to us a week before is the one helping us. She of course didn't remember and couldn't care less. She did however give me a piece of advise and told me wherever I go to ask for this copy back or I'll have to come and pay another twenty dollars plus parking for each copy. Okay! She points me down the hall to the DMV where I can get my drivers license.

Down the hall I go, I pick another number and sit and wait. They call my number, and I jump up. Eager to get away from whatever that insane smell is coming from the woman in front of me! I go up to the counter and the woman is unpleasant at best. She tells me that all my waiting was for no reason that I could not be issued a drivers license with the new name until I change I name on my social security card. Okay, where the hell do I do that? She tells me of a place across town.

I arrive at the social security office and take another number. My husband and I quietly laugh at a person that we can't decide is a man or a woman, helps themselves to a desk telephone, and calls someone to ask for money for an apartment. This person is on the phone for ten minutes before a security guard catches them, and asks this person to "please not use our phones". The person says to the security guard, "Okay my bad, just a minute." Just a minute what? I was amused!

"99" Ooh goody that's me! I approach the counter and it seems that this woman has some sort of bird flu. She is coughing all over the place and wiping her nose as she takes my documents. I am charged another twenty dollars. Other than that, it is pretty quick and painless. I ask her if i can now go get my drivers license and she says yes.

Back into the car. We drive to the DMV and I pick.... you guessed it! Another number! I sit patiently and watch Judge Joe Brown and wait. Can I just say that everywhere I go the offices seem to have flat screen televisions! Well, I suppose if you charge everyone twenty dollars for every little frickin thing eventually the state has a little cash to throw around! When my number is called the woman at the counter tells me that I have to have a certified copy of my Birth Certificate from the county clerks office, they will not take the hospital copy, which of course is the one I have!

I call my Dad. Ask him if he has a copy of my original birth certificate, he says he does and he'll mail it to me and I should have it in a few days.

Finally I have all the necessary documents and go to change my name! The picture of me is awful. But I suppose everyone's is. Anyhow! Two weeks and $78.00 plus shipping later, I am Mrs. Newlywed! The lesson here is that no matter what anyone tells you, it does feel good to take his name. But it will cost you....at least your time. So make sure you really want it. I now longer judge the women out there that don't take their maiden name back after their marriage falls apart. After all, who has the time or the cash to do this more than once! And I'm sure it will take another series of twenty dollars and a certified copy of your vagina.

Cocktail Withdrawl

The New Year has brought my marriage some interesting twists. The biggest of these is with these tough economic times we have taken in a very close friend and her daughter and allowed them to stay with us for awhile, as she tries to get back on her feet. The whole roommate thing wasn't on the top of our list for our newlywed year, but life throws you some curve balls and you make lemon vodka. So anyhow things have been rough.

The roughest of all was a decision I made recently to take 30 days off from alcohol. This decision was based on a friend of a friends recent diagnosis of liver failure due to alcoholism. We were all shocked and in horror of the idea of the very thing that seems to hold us all together when we're depressed, have had a bad date, bad cramps, dumped, fired, or even helped us celebrate the good times would ever fail us in such a brutal way. Apparently, my friend had been told by her doctor, after several paranoid phone calls where she swore she was turning yellow, that our livers have incredible rejuvenation capabilities, and that if you were to take 30 days off a year you could theoretically hit the bars hard the rest of the year with little repercussion.

So let me first explain my profession. I am a bartender. I have been a bartender for over 10 years. I have not once in those 10 years taken 2 weeks off at a time from drinking...ever. No I am not a raging alcoholic. I'm not a real binge drinker either, in fact I hate feeling drunk. But I really enjoy drinking. I look forward to my glass of wine at the end of a very long night of watching everyone else drink. I enjoy beer with sports, wine with dinner, martinis with friends, champagne on New Years, warm brandy after a huge meal, scotch on a cold night, and the list goes on. I'm not a drunk, I'm a drinkee. (It's like a foodie with cocktails)

After this revelation that I had in fact not gone 2 weeks without a drink since the 90's I decided that I could give it up for 30 days. After all 30 days isn't that long, heck rent seems due every time I turn around. So I began.

Day 5 was the first test. I remember it was a Thursday and I realized that the weekend was approaching. Many friends would be coming to my job to visit. They would all be drinking, and I would be gnawing off my fingernails. Luckily the weekend was quick and I really didn't miss it too much.

Week 2 okay, I've now gone 14 days without alcohol and I am definitely thinking that this was a bad idea. I begin contemplating what a glass of chateneuf de pape would taste like. I explore the idea of buying some pot. I say a prayer and keep on, after all tomorrow I'm half way there!

Day 19. I run to grocery store and buy a jug of grape juice, put it in a wine glass and try to feel fancy, and forget how absolutely stressed out of my mind I am! I am feeling very disappointed that I don't feel different! It's been almost three weeks! Shouldn't I have more energy or something?

Last night was day 22. My husband calls me in a frantic voice and tells me that he just totaled the scooter and hit a dog, in a series of awful seconds that can not be erased! We were almost done paying off the scooter! When I arrive on the scene the scooter is completely smashed up, there is a beautiful husky like dog laying in the road howling the most awful sounds of pain I can fathom. My husband is okay physically but brokenhearted at the idea that he hurt an animal.
We call humane society and get the dog to an animal hospital, get the scooter in the mini van and arrive home.

My husband pours himself a very healthy scotch and tries to shake off the adrenaline that is coursing through his veins. I help him dress the couple wounds that were on his leg and quickly realize just how much alcohol has been a crutch in my life. The wine is sitting there staring at me. Just a glass won't hurt. It will help you relax. You'll feel better!

In that moment I looked up to the heavens and asked God, "So I just have to feel this?" Few times in my life have I felt like God has laughed at me. I swear I heard him laugh. So I did. I just felt it. Felt the frustration, felt the sadness, felt the helplessness, just felt it. And in a way it was beautiful.

Am I going to quit drinking for good? No, probably not. But I am going to remember that experience next time I want a liquid encourager. Drinking, for me, should have a place in my life for the good times, and no longer the bad.

Sunday is the Super Bowl, and my 30 day mark. I will spend it having cocktails with friends. Celebrating life, and hating myself tomorrow, the way God intended drinking!God bless us everyone!

Turning 30.....really!?!

I am aware that all little girls put expectations on their life, and even as easy as we try to make them, earmarks are embedded in the subconscious. Married to the perfect love of my life by 30. Maybe a child by 35, if I so chose to have one. (Still on the fence.) A name in the world of cultural arts, at least on a local level by 40.

I don't think that these goals are too hard to come by and so far I am on schedule. I got married exactly 53 days before my 30th birthday. To the man of my dreams. Everything is telling me to go out and celebrate! So I make plans to go see a cheesy discoesk band with some of my closest friends and my husband.

The morning arrives, I wake to the sun shining and the coziness of my new expensive sheets, (courtesy of the bridal registry) and for one second I didn't realize it was my birthday. Then my husband says, "Happy birthday honey. Honey is 30 today." And out of nowhere I started crying. I felt like a total loser. Why was I crying you ask? I have no idea. For some reason 30 is scary.

My husband asks me why I am crying, and I can't answer him. He very kindly reminds me of what a fantastic life we have. He tells me to look around at our beautiful home, and to look in the mirror. And I have to agree I look pretty damn good for 30. He continues to make me breakfast and take me out for gyros later at my favorite place. We go home I begin to get my 30 year old ass ready.

I look good, I feel good. I have my man at my side and lots of friends to celebrate. What was my problem? 30's looking pretty good! And then, in a twist of fate I still can't comprehend, it happens.

I come face to face with the man I was engaged to at the age of 24. I was greeting several people standing in a circle and after spending all of my late 20s terrified that I would run into him and never did, I let my guard down and thought perhaps he had taken my mental waves of advice that he should disappear and become a hermit. And the only person I didn't see, of course was him.

It was one of those incredibly awkward things that you play over and over in your head, and think how stupid you are that you didn't get the signals. I mean here I am hugging these two people whose faces are falling as I hug them, not smiling. They looked like political figures you see on Barbara Walters where she finally asks the question that every mom in the grocery store already knows the answer to, and they have that look of, "F$#@!!!!!". Only still trying to smile.

I hug these two people and turn and there he is. He gave me a look I will not soon forget, and in an effort to clear up the awkward silence, I say hello and extend a handshake? Of which he meets begrudgingly. Funny thing about that, you have no idea how familiar a persons hand can be.

Well I flipped out a little. And made my husband very angry. He said things like "I don't understand why you give a damn." And really why did I? Yes, it was an awful breakup, but it was six years ago.

I spent the next 2 days really searching myself to find out why. And this is what I have come up with.... wait for it..... I felt sorry for him. I broke his heart looking for a better life, and I found it. My husband is the most amazing man, friend, lover, and co-pilot. I suppose that part of me feels like I won, and I won by being selfish, and I hate selfish people.

This revelation came on New Years Eve. So 2010 baby, I let it all go. Here's to all the ladies out there that know what they want and don't want to settle. It's okay to be selfish, your life will be beautiful when you put your future first. And to that guy, I wish him all the happiness in the world with the girl that didn't settle for someone else! Cheers, Happy New Year, and Happy freaking birthday to me! 30 never looked so good!